Not Normal
by anythingkj
Summary: This is the last straw- but for who? One Shot. Warnings: mental illness (is that one?) and swears. Klaine. Futurefic. Sorry if this seems inaccurate or offensive; it's just based off of my own experience with some things.


Summary: This is the last straw- but for who? One Shot. Warnings: mental illness (is that one?) and swears. Klaine. Futurefic.

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><p>Chelsea is egging him on from the back.<p>

_Faster, Daddy, faster!_ She thinks it's a game. And it damn well is a game. _Yes, faster, faster, faster,_ his brain tells him. And Kurt doesn't think. Kurt does.

His foot goes down even more on the gas pedal and the car goes _vroom vroom_, like cars do, and he screams to Chelsea over the music _(I like to be in america, everything free in america),_

_Open the windows, Cheals!_ Her laugh is like jingle bells, and the familiar christmas tune dances in his head, _(jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh)_

The wind blows in his hair, and for some crazy reason he couldn't give a shit at this moment; this moment where everything feels right and there are no consequences.

It's late. It's dark out. He knows he should be home. But he doesn't _want_ to go home, where Blaine will tell him _go to sleep and damn it, Kurt, I need you to take your medication!_ With his stupid eyes and hair that's messy mostly nowadays, making him feel bad, because every time he sees _Blaine_ he looks a little older, a little more tired, and damn it Kurt doesn't want to grow _older_, grow _tired._

His phone is alight with yet another message from Blaine. He picks it up and plays it, holding the phone in between his shoulder and his tilted head.

_You know what Kurt, fuck this. I'm tired. I'm worried about Chelsea. You need to bring her back __**right. now. **__You're not stable and it's not fair to bring her into all this shit_. Oh. Blaine must be mad. He doesn't ever curse. Not really, unless they're having fun, but now that only happens when Chelsea isn't home. But Chelsea isn't home right now. The girl is still laughing like jingle bells. _(We then got drifted in a bank and then we got upsot)_ The soundtrack is still blasting, too, _(We are sick, we are sick, We are sick, sick, sick, Like we're sociologically sick!)_ Kurt laughs again, and it sounds like the girl's but lower, and a little scratchy.

_I am sick, I am sick, I am sick sick sick, like I'm sociologically sick!_ He mutters to himself, then bursts out laughing again.

Chelsea has taken off her seatbelt and her head pops in between the two front seats. Shouldn't she have seatbelt on? No, it's okay. There aren't that many accidents…

_Daddy, are you okay? You're acting kind of funny. When are we gonna go home?_

_Are you tired? We'll get some ice cream, how 'bout that? That'll wake you up!_

_Daddy, you should slow down now. Otherwise Papa says you could get a ticket that way._ Kurt doesn't care what _Papa_ says, but he wants ice cream, he really does. Probably more than the child.

They get to the ice cream store and Kurt hops out. Chelsea follows not far behind. The man digs in his pockets for cash. He has a five, two ones, two quarters, a nickel, and seven pennies. They sit down at the old-style ice cream counter on high chairs that Chelsea keeps spinning on. Kurt decides it's fun, too, and around, and around, and around he goes.

The man behind the counter gives him a funny look.

_Can I get you guys anything?_

_Daddy, I want-_

_Go ahead, sweetie, get whatever you'd like._

Half an hour later they're back in the car, and her hands are sticky with melted ice cream.

_Dad, I want to go home._

He obliges, finally. But of course _Blaine_ is there, still up, and staring at his damned coffee that's in the mug Kurt made for him for their fifth anniversary. When he looks up at Kurt, Kurt feels an inane amount of guilt hit him like a speeding truck and he has the urge to cry.

He swallows, and grins at the other man. He stares Kurt down, now clutching the glass tightly, and Kurt swears his hands are shaking just like his own.

_Chelsea, go to bed, okay, honey? You have school tomorrow and your Daddies need to have a chat._

_Okay. 'Night, Daddy. 'Night, Papa._

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><p>"What the <em>hell<em> were you thinking?" I slam my fist down on the island in our kitchen. My husband squirms, but then cocks his eyebrow and smirks.

"She's going to hear you. She needs sleep."

"Like you care! You're the reason she's up at this hour!"

"Sue me."

"What happened to you? Why can't you be a_ normal_ Dad?" His eyes flash and I know I've said the wrong thing. Or is it the right thing?

"_Normal?_" He spits at me. "You married me. You wanted your daughter to have_ normal_ fathers, you should have thought a little harder before getting down in one knee." He's about to storm off, but I stop him.

"Alright. I knew you would have a few quirks, but lately you've become sort of crazy. And-"

"Crazy." Kurt stares at me angrily, then points to the counter.

"Where's the coffee maker?"

"We don't have one."

"Why not?"

"You… you can't drink coffee. You know that. What does that-"

"I can't drink _coffee_. Blaine, the day I met you, what did we do?"

"Wes and David brought us…" Realization dawns on me what he's trying to say. "Coffee."

"When we became friends, where did we go on our 'non-dates?'"

"The… the Lima Bean." I say slowly.

"What were we doing, where were we, the first time we said our I love you's?"

"Drinking coffee at the Lima Bean."

"And Blaine, I first realized you actually cared about me when I found out you knew my coffee order. But Blaine?"

"Yeah?" I ask quietly, knowing exactly what he's going to say.

"I _can't drink coffee_. Don't you see? I'm not normal, Blaine. I can't go to school fundraisers or benefits, or parties with you, I can't drink alcohol- I can't even drink most kinds of tea, I mean, Chelsea can't even go to private school like we wanted her to because of the cost of my therapy sessions, psychologist, and meds. I can't keep a job. I'm not normal. You're right. And I've been selfish, sticking around far too long. Blaine, I know I need to take my meds. Okay? But I hate it. I hate being dependant on goddamn _pills,_ taking eleven pills a day like an eighty year old man- and I'm not stable. I need to go." His words take a moment to register.

"You're…. you're… Kurt, you can't _do that_!" How did this go from my being angry at him for staying out late with Chelsea to him leaving? I follow him to our room, where he pulls out a suitcase from the closet and starts throwing clothes in. This is how I know he's serious. He's not even bothering to fold his things. This is also how I know he's manic. That, and his fast speech and the fact that since he's come home he's been drumming his fingers on his left thigh.

I swallow thickly, trying to force myself not to cry.

"K-Kurt you're not being ration-rational…" By now he's gone and come back from the bathroom with toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a hairbrush. Not even any hairspray. "What about your face creams and hair products…" I say stupidly, my voice soft and disbelieving. He throws them in along with any last few clothes he might want. He zips up the bag and starts to walk out, but I grab his arm and cry out one last plea,

"What about your daughter?" He smiles almost wryly and tells me,

"That's exactly why I'm doing this." I race down the stairs behind him. He's about open the door.

"Kurt, p-please!" I gave up trying not to cry a few shirts ago. When he turns to me, I lock his lips in a searing kiss. "I-I'm not worth staying? This isn't worth staying for?"

"This?" He cocks his head in confusion. "I don't know what the hell this is anymore." With that, he opens the door, steps out and slams it behind him. I don't even try to follow. Even when he's unstable, once Kurt's made up his mind, that's it.

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><p>Okay. Unbetaed, and I've never written the way I wrote in the first section, so I apologize if it's confusing or horrible or whatever... R&amp;R?<p> 


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